


Aftershock

by afoxinsocks



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Drinking, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 08:19:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11551242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afoxinsocks/pseuds/afoxinsocks
Summary: Set during S3E1 'Ride'. What could've happened when Thursday visits Morse after Bixby's first party.





	Aftershock

“I wouldn’t be any use to you.”

“No?”

“No.”

Morse lets his eyes shutter with the roll of his head, pressing his palms with precision onto the counter top, determined to keep them from raking into his hair, from giving himself away. He’s cold, so cold and then suddenly hot and perspiring, a cool sweat spreading out under his shirt across on the small of his back, stomach clenching, curling him inwards.  The sight of Thursday, the smell of him, his voice all conspire to bring the memories rising back and up to the surface. The gunpowder, the blood, his own frantic pleading.

_Stay with me, sir. Stay with me._

The silence doesn’t end, seems to expand and grow more suffocating until it takes up the whole cabin, until it feels like it’s circling him, crushing across his chest, forcing down his throat and into his gut. Flexing his fingers he feels the warm, solid expanse of Thursday’s chest, blood seeping through his suit and jacket, reddening his own hands. Hears the wet, wracking wheezing that rattles through Thursday’s lungs, his moans of pain and broken words.

 _Sam_ and _Joan_ and _Win_.

_It'll be alright, sir._

Sinking his teeth into his lower lip, he resists the urge to turn, to see Thursday there, to take comfort in his calmness, his certainty. Instead he screws his eyes more tightly shut, breathes out through his mouth and wills Thursday to leave, wills it with what little strength remains within him.

Before, meeting Bixby, it had been fanciful at first, the very idea that this could be his life now. But then, as the night had passed, as he’d been caught up and swept away with the music and magic the possibility had become clearer, surer, attractive and tempting. He wanted it, he’d realised, on the walk round to his side of the lake. A life of casual friendships, lounging in the sun, of parties, of money, and being wanted by women like Kay. Simple, easy, unhurried, untroubled. This could be his life now. If he lets it. But he knows that he can’t, that he won’t. It’s not his life. It never could be. He’s no more one of them than he was one of Cowley Road. And he’s ridiculous for ever trying or believing either to be true.

Thursday’s warm hand at the base of his neck sends him flinching bodily into the cabinet, yelping in pain as sharp edges strike his hip and knee, prompting sudden, stinging tears behind his eyes. He swears once, softly, then again as he rubs roughly at his knee.

“Sorry,” he mutters at Thursday’s feet, knowing without seeing the pity in his eyes. “I wasn’t….I get – if someone – I.” He straightens abruptly, squaring his shoulders, on the offensive, bracing against whatever calming words Thursday has ready.

“I wasn’t expecting you to do that.”

Thursday’s reply, when it comes, is inscrutable.

“No. No, you wouldn’t.”

~

They sit, shoulder to shoulder, pressed hip to knee, Thursday a warm, solid weight against him. Morse drinks until his glass is empty, then drinks until the following one is. The one after that is taken away from him with firms hands and they fall into conversation far less strained that before; about the cabin and the lakeside, avoiding all mentions of prisons, hospitals, shootings and conspiracies, of Cowley Road, bodies and crime.

“Come back, lad.”

It’s said so suddenly, so quietly, that Morse isn’t sure he heard. His eyes dart up to Thursday’s and he can’t bear to dash to the hope there, to be a disappointment again.

But he will, because he is.

“I can’t. I – ” There’s nothing else there, nothing more to say. “I _can’t_.”

“You can. You can do anything you set that bloody great mind to.”

Morse turns, lets his gaze fall into the middle distance past the wall, through the window to the trees silhouetted against the moon outside.

“Nobody needs me, you – ”

This time the pain hits him before the flinch catches up, the curve of his jaw held, vice like, between Thursday’s thumb and forefinger, snapping his head up and round to meet his eyes. There’s a long moment, marked only by the erratic thrum of his pulse and he flushes with the sudden realisation Thursday can feel it, three fingers coming to rest against his neck, just as obviously as he can. The forefinger and thumb dig in once, then gentle, stroke singularly along his jaw and down his neck and away. Morse’s eyes slip shut, his pulse jumps, but when he opens them again Thursday’s still there – looking grimly determined – but still there.

“That’s not true. It never has been and I don’t want to hear that from you again. Understood?”

He feels his head dip once in a nod.

“Good. Now, time you got some kip and I got off home.”

A huff of laughter escapes before he can quell it. At Thursday’s raised eyebrow he elaborates.

“I don’t sleep any more, sir. I can’t.”

“Since when?”

_Since I saw you with blood pouring from your lung. Since the first night the cell door slammed behind me. Since the first time they…_

“I just can’t.”

 

~

Later, he wakes, yelling out, struggling against the blankets, against the heavy warmth of Thursday's coat, pulled up high over his chest. He's disorientated, thrashing about, mind looping from Thursday's bloodied body, to the courtroom, to his cell. Over the rush of blood around his ears, he hears his name, is aware of a hand clasped in his, another stroking through his hair. That voice, something about it cuts through the panic, brings him back.

"You're alright, lad. You're alright."

_He's alive._

"You're alive," he echos, dumbly.

In the dim lamplight Thursday sits, leaning over him, large hands soothing, expression somewhere between amused and exasperated.

"Aye, though not for want of trying on your part. Screaming like a banshee, you were."

The blankets are shifted around him, tucked in tight, his hair brushed away, sweat damp, from his face. He feels the need to say sorry, to be mortified, to acknowledge the strangeness of being tucked in by his DI, of being slowly soothed back to sleep but it's warm and safe, and his mind is too hazy to object, and he can have this - can't he? This is something he can have. Even if it's not something he deserves.

"Sleep, Endeavour."

"Goodnight, sir."

~

 

 


End file.
